Twelve Hours of Murder
by fandomsgirl48
Summary: Christmas without murder wouldn't be Christmas at Baker Street. John/Sherlock One shot, but could be continued at a later date


**Pre-Reichanbach Fall AU**

An upbeat melody filled into John's ears as he slowly drifted into consciousness. He was sorely tempted to recline back into his soft sheets, but Sherlock's persistent playing was too loud of ignore. John sat up, and scanned the room for the hastily wrapped present he had placed on top of the wardrobe last night. Surprisingly, the present was still there- Sherlock had made a habit of sneaking into John's room while he slept and swiping the present, in order to deduce its contents. He wrapped his dressing gown round himself, and stumbled down to the living room, clutching the gift.

Sherlock stood in his usual spot by the window, his fingers dancing along the violin's strings. He didn't appear to acknowledge John's presence, but John knew better.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said, clearing the sofa of various case files. Sherlock swept around, his unearthly pale eyes scanning the present, before placing his violin on its stand.

"And to you, John. Thanks for the microscope," he said in his baritone, a hint of smugness clear on his face. John rolled his eyes, and pressed the present into Sherlock's arms. 221B was still as cluttered as ever, but a Christmas tree illuminated the usually dark room, and mistletoe adorned mirrors and picture frames. Sherlock seemed to be giving into to some of the infectious Christmas cheer- he had swapped his usual blue dressing gown for his mahogany one, and he had allowed a wreath to be put on his bedroom door.

As John moved past Sherlock to the kitchen, their hands brushed. John felt a slight flush rise to his cheeks, which he quickly dismissed. As if _Sherlock _with his unruly black curls and stunning eyes and pale physique would ever have the slightest amount of interest in him. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice John's reaction. John walked to the fridge and inspected the contents. Nothing really seemed edible, due to the body parts in close proximity to the actual food.

"No, I'm not going to eat the food you are undoubtedly about to try and force down my throat," Sherlock followed him into the kitchen, flopped into a chair and began tearing at the crimson paper binding the microscope's box. John hadn't expected to be able to make Sherlock eat breakfast, and settled himself opposite the taller man, spooning cornflakes into his mouth.

"This is the newest model, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, and raised his head to beam at John. John almost choked on his food as he digested the fact that Sherlock's eyes were shining, and his lips were parted in a genuine smile. He wondered if Sherlock ever got presents that he actually wanted, instead of an affectionless card from Mycroft and an expensive suit from his mother.

Sherlock was clearly already mentally contemplating experiments, but he mumbled something about John's present being on the window sill. John grabbed the package and sank into his chair, peeling off the sellotape. To his surprise, Sherlock sat opposite him, watching John analytically. John held up a thick woollen sweater, complete with a navy hat, and laughed disbelievingly.

"I thought it was appropriate for you to have a trademark hat," Sherlock smirked, but he also searched John's reaction for any signs of displeasure. John just chuckled, and begrudgingly put on the hat.

Mrs Hudson stuck her head round the door, all smiles as she saw Sherlock and John exchanging gifts.

"I'm surprised you two are up already!" she grinned, trotting over and hugging John.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson," John said, squeezing the older woman's shoulders before looking pointedly at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but left the room and returned with yet more presents. Mrs Hudson was delighted with her new cooking equipment from John, but less impressed with the book on murder from Sherlock. Sherlock didn't seem to mind Mrs Hudson's disapproval, and instead whipped out his phone, checking for cases. John always loved to see Sherlock focused- his hair fell in his eyes, and his whole stance was strong and prepared for action. Mrs Hudson's chattering became fainter as John studied his flat mate, until Sherlock's head snapped up.

"There's been a murder," he said, his eyes as bright as they had been when receiving the presents, but this glee seemed different. This glee made him abnormal.

"Oh, Sherlock, it's Christmas day!" sighed Mrs Hudson, as Sherlock rushed to his bedroom to dress. John picked up Sherlock's phone, and read the text from Lestrade.

**Body found at 6 Pine Road. Need your help.**

John smirked knowingly. Lestrade would ask Sherlock to almost every crime scene if Donovan would permit it.

"Get dressed, John!" Sherlock snapped, marching back into the room and shrugging into his coat. Sherlock was wearing his favourite purple shirt, that always looked too tight for him, and his hair was untamed. John swallowed appreciatively, before throwing the jumper from Sherlock over his pyjama top and running to his own bedroom. He grabbed the first garnets he could lay his hands on, and stopped in the bathroom only to give his teeth a quick brush.

Sherlock was pacing restlessly, clearly agitated at John's slowness. John was surprised that Sherlock had even waited for him- normally he flounced out the door without any concern for John. The smaller man grabbed his coat and some gloves, before pecking Mrs Hudson on her weathered cheek and dashing out the door after Sherlock.

The crisp white snow made Baker Street look noticeably different than during the warmer months- the brilliant whiteness brightened the whole road but made it harder for John to plough his way to the road. Sherlock was waiting patiently on the pavement, as if a cab was going to materialise at seven thirty on Christmas Day.  
"Sherlock, just because you're working today doesn't mean everyone else is" John reminded the detective. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stuck his hands in his infamous coat.  
"Then enlighten me as to how we are going to reach the crime scene" Sherlock all but spat. John sighed, and checked his watch.  
"We'll have to take the tube," he concluded. Sherlock made a frustrated noise, but nearly galloped to over take John in his haste to reach the station.

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Half an hour later, they reached the nondescript suburban street, covered with the same white layer as the rest of London. Sherlock held up the police tape for John courteously, before following him under. John noticed Sherlock was still maintaining an emotionless expression- just for a change, Sherlock had caused turmoil on the tube, by telling a man that his wife was clearly having an affair. John had hastily told the man that Sherlock was a mental patient, which obviously didn't go down well with the arrogant detective. Sherlock had stood up, and moved to the opposite end of the carriage, blatantly ignoring John. John had smiled apologetically at the couple, who were shooting daggers at each other, and moved to stand up by the doors. When they had reached the station, Sherlock had swept out of the doors and tried to lose himself in the crowds- fortunately, John's well practiced eye could locate Sherlock's dark curls in seconds, and John had ploughed after him.

"Sherlock. Good of you to come on Christmas," Lestrade greeted the detective, and shook John's hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes, already scanning the scene. The house was small, with white washed walls and single glazed windows; the interior was cheaply furnished and messy, but also homely- pictures were scattered along the mantelpiece, and a tall Christmas tree presided over the rest of the room.

"It wouldn't be Christmas without a murder," John said, his voice dripping in sarcasm. Sherlock nodded in agreement, obviously too focused to pick up on John's tone. Lestrade chuckled, before resuming his conversation with Donovan, who looked very unhappy about missing out on her Christmas day.

"Where's the body," Sherlock pondered. John looked at the police officers, who pointed upstairs. The detective was gone before John could say anything, and John ran after him, smirking slightly.

The body was sprawled on the floor, in a puddle of crimson. Sherlock was already examining it, no doubt formulating theories. His head snapped up as John approached, and he grinned.

"Stabbed, multiple times- how long has he been dead?" Sherlock asked. John crouched beside the body, and began to survey it.

"A couple of hours at the most," John concluded. He looked at Sherlock for confirmation, and was greeted with azure eyes boring into his. There was still a huge gap between them, but it felt as if they were closer… John broke the eye contact, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Donovan entered the room, followed by Lestrade, so John had no time to brood on what had just happened.

"Got anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded. Sherlock gave him a look, before straightening up.

"He was unemployed, but did side jobs, according to his calendar. But his tan lines imply a suit- see how his hands, neck and face are tanned but not arms. So some sort of costumed role- judging by his weight, overall appearance, and the time of year, he worked as a Father Christmas," Sherlock's disdain was clear, as if dressing up was a sin.

"He liked his job- notes and pictures in his pockets from small children. A jolly, good Samaritan type. Unlikely that he was targeted because he was a threat to someone else- a cold blooded murder. His wife left him two or three months ago- he has put on lot of weight in a short amount of time, and there are pictures of him and woman, about his age, all over the house. However, the house shows no signs of being inhabited by a woman- too untidy. There was most likely another man. So, he is a lonely, heart broken man who has a festive job that only just pays the bills. Conclusion- no criminal affiliation. But he was killed for a reason- Father Christmas killed on Christmas day? A warning," Sherlock finished, looking smug as always.

"Fantastic," John gave the usual appreciative compliment. Sherlock smirked, before addressing the whole room.

"Search for the weapon, and any messages," he barked, before marching into the bathroom. John followed blindly, ignoring Donavon's gaze burning into the back of his head and found Sherlock staring at the mirror. A message was painted in red-

_Twelve hours. Twelve hostages. Hope you know your carols._

John's mind started whirling- carols? Christmas Carols then- it was the only logical assumption. John began trying to recall all the Christmas songs he knew, but to be honest, he had never liked Christmas. Not since the Christmas when he was eight and his dad got so drunk… John shook his head, before focusing on Sherlock. He had turned to look at John almost pleadingly.

"Carols, John. I deleted almost all of them when I was five, but surely you know?" Sherlock began pacing, his face set in a scowl. John racked his brains, and suddenly-

"The twelve days of Christmas!" he blurted out, and Sherlock's turned so fast he almost blurred before John's eyes. John had a fleeting memory of performing the song in his school choir, which almost made him shudder. He hated singing these days.

The rest of the team crowded into the room, waiting for Sherlock to jump to a brilliant conclusion. Sherlock, however, still looked baffled. He was muttering to himself, no doubt trying to resurrect some data on the carol- it seemed he was unsuccessful, and he consulted John after a few minutes.

"How does it relate to the murder?" he asked, scowling at his own incompetence. John half smiled at Sherlock's expression, before scanning the message again.

"Well I suppose the clues are in the lyrics, then," John said slowly. Sherlock nodded, pulling out his phone to look up lyrics presumably.

"So we've got an hour to find some poor bastard, and all we have is a Christmas carol?" Lestrade clarified. John nodded, his brow furrowing. The whole set up was reminiscent of the Great Game, which John didn't care to remember. He could still smell the reek of chlorine, and feel Sherlock's gaze pierce through him as for one second, Sherlock thought he'd lost his only friend. The taller man seemed to be remembering too, quickly refocused on his phone.

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me: a partridge in a pear tree," Sherlock announced, sniffing at the sentimental lyrics.

"So that's our clue? A partridge in a pear tree?" Donovan scoffed as Sherlock apparently went to his mind palace. The whole room watched disdainful silence, before the genius's eyes snapped out, and he gasped.

"It all fits! Everything is in the road name! This man was murdered, because of his job, and the street address- Pine Road! We've got a clever one, oh yes, he's clever," Sherlock exclaimed, the joy that only a well executed murder could bring prominent on his angular features all over his face. John, however, was still baffled.

"So where's the hostage?" he asked, his confused face mirroring the rest of the team's. Sherlock tapped on his phone for a few seconds, before triumphantly holding up his phone for the rest of the room to see.

"Partridge Close, London," Sherlock grinned, his voice brimming with arrogance. Lestrade began yelling at the rest of the team, while Donovan pulled on her coat, scowling. Sherlock was smirking, obviously pleased with himself, and John sidled up to him.

"It's too simple, isn't it?" John muttered.

"Oh yes. But this is just the warm up, John," Sherlock declared, before departing to catch a cab.

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Partridge Close was a boringly suburban street, with houses slightly more tasteful than those of Pine Road, but still mediocre. Sherlock's unearthly eyes swept the road, before pointing to one of the houses.

"That one. The windows have been recently opened but the post has been unopened for weeks. Footprints all over the porch, but the car is spotless- if the house was inhabited by its owner then there wouldn't be any dirt. Oh, and the house number is twelve," he rattled off, already striding towards the house. John followed, adrenaline pumping through his body. He hadn't considered who the hostage would be, but he hoped it wasn't a child. Sherlock, however, didn't look like he could care less as he eagerly waited for an officer to break the door down.

The hallway was dusty, but looked untouched. Shoes were scattered by the door, and pictures cluttered up the walls. The only thing that looked out of place was a small stain of blood running along the carpet, leading to a painting of a fruit bowl. John frowned, and walked towards it, but collided with Lestrade who was barking commands at the other officers. Lestrade then rounded on him, and ordered him to find Sherlock and keep him under control. Sherlock had already torn upstairs, desperate to find the hostage- only to locate the next clue, most likely, thought John grimly as he trailed after the detective.

All the doors were presumably locked, John deducted as he stood at top of the stairs- Sherlock would have forced his way into each of them if they didn't present near indestructibility. One door lay ajar, and John moved towards it slowly, waiting for any sounds of danger.

"Well, this is unexpected. I thought the dramatic showdown would occur later than this," Sherlock's cold, deep voice spilled out from inside the room. John froze, his hand inches from the door- he couldn't burst in, and endanger Sherlock even more. He decided to wait, cursing his soldier instincts which were screaming for him to run.

"Oh please. I knew the only way to lure you here was to get you convinced you were about to play a spectacular game, full its tricks and twists and ways to show how clever you are," a sneering masculine voice replied. John reached into his pocket, for his handgun- this man didn't seem like someone that was above murder. Neither was John.

"Well done. You're brought me to a house full of police officers to murder me. A truly well executed plan," Sherlock drawled. The other voice paused, before chuckling.

"The hostage is downstairs, and will keep them busy long enough to deal with you, Mr Holmes,"

"Bit of a risk, isn't it, trusting that no one will follow me?" John's lips twitched. He knew Sherlock wanted as much information as possible before attacking, but he absently switched off safety mode.

"Who would follow Sherlock Holmes, the strange detective who everyone believes to be a psychopath?" the voice reasoned.

"Fair enough. So why do you intend to kill me?" Sherlock sounded genuinely curious, and John almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the genius.

"Because you know too much. Jim Moriaty sends his regards" the man said. John heard the barrel of the gun click, and all he registered was Sherlock yelling "Vatican Cameos," before he raced into the room, gun at the ready.

Sherlock stood by the window, looking almost nonplussed, while a tall, dark skinned man turned in shock to stare at John. Sherlock seemed to make a calculation, before realising what was about to happen, launching himself at the enemy. Sherlock's actions didn't prevent the penetration of the bullet into John's chest however, and John stumbled, blinking quickly. Not again he thought scathingly, and an excruciating pain began to spread throughout his body, dulling his senses, and making everything but his own blood and Sherlock's eyes disappear. John was vaguely aware of slumping to the floor, red liquid leaking slowly through his shirt, and people shouting, before he was enveloped in darkness.

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John was drifting. He slowly deduced that he was in a hospital, due to the stark whiteness of the room and unintelligible beeps. Someone was clinging onto his hand, but he wasn't sure whom. All he knew was that he was in pain, but it was a dull, drawn out pain, that made you groan not scream. Morphine was probably helping. His eyes finally focused in on an unearthly face, eyes slightly red and hair unkempt. Sherlock made an attempt to flatten his hair back down as he noticed John's consciousness, but failed. He settled with quickly withdrawing his hand from John's, and placing it back on his lap. John blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. Surely Sherlock wouldn't be allowed in his room- hospital rules. But Sherlock was here, and he had been holding his hand, and John found himself praying that he wasn't blushing. Sherlock was married to his work- he was probably doing some sort of wild experiment. And he had probably succumbed to drugs, judging by his eyes.

"I thought you were clean," John rasped, trying to sit up. Sherlock's lean arm immediately pushed him back down, before replying.

"I am. How are you feeling?" he was clearly trying to change the subject. John wasn't going to comply.

"No Sherlock, look at your eyes. How long was I out? Surely there was someone you could have gone to, instead of doing cocaine again?" John said, grabbing Sherlock's arm and forcing eye contact. Sherlock bit his lip, before looking down.

"John, I haven't done any drugs. I was… I was worried," he confessed. John was sure his eyes widened, but he quickly tried to conceal it.

"Really?" was all the doctor could stutter. An unreadable emotion crossed Sherlock's face, and his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach across to John.

"Well, you're my….friend. Of course I was worried," he said gruffly. John's felt his heart sink, and nodded.

"Friend. Yeah," he agreed. His chest was beginning to hurt again, but he wasn't completely sure it was because of the wound. Sherlock smiled joylessly, before the nurse bustled in, and began fumbling with the morphine.

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"Really John, I thought we agreed that the limp was psychometric," Sherlock scoffed, as he gingerly helped John upstairs to 221B. John had been released after a few weeks in hospital, due to the fact that he was a doctor and could most likely care for himself. Sherlock had informed him that the man who had made an attempt on both John and Sherlock's lives had been caught, and imprisoned. Neither of them discussed the subject of Moriaty, who was looming like a storm cloud over them, existent and impending, but unstoppable.

"Sherlock, I was shot four weeks ago. Some patience would be nice," John rolled his eyes, as they fell through the doorway into Baker Street. John's eyes darted upwards, and noticed the mistletoe, which Sherlock had obviously neglected to remove. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him, and he slowly looked at the detective. Sherlock was standing closer than usual, and John didn't mind. John stepped forwards, so that there was inches between them.

"Mistletoe," John noted, relishing in how Sherlock's pupils dilated.

"Maybe Christmas isn't a complete waste of time," Sherlock breathed, before closing the gap in between their lips.

_**Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave any criticism. **_


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